


A Sick Spiteful Creature

by bravinto



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1783591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravinto/pseuds/bravinto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The telephone is ringing again, over and over</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sick Spiteful Creature

**Author's Note:**

> i don't really know if there is a name for the state of mind Newt is in here! If I knew, I would tag it :3  
> I have been feeling like this lately, and I apologize to Newton for dumping my feelings onto him!

The telephone is ringing again, over and over, but Newt won’t pick up. Stupid landline. Who even uses it anymore! Probably just some shitty spam. He does not answer, because if they really need him, they will figure out how to find him…sooner or later. He doesn’t really want to be found, though, so he might have turned off his mobile. And his tablet. And his laptop, too. 

It is a warm summer Saturday, he should be enjoying the weekend at the seaside in the sun and soft breeze like everyone else, but he goes hiding indoors, trying to shrug off the itchy annoying feeling that some mosquito or other bug is trying to bite him when he isn’t looking. 

He sprawls on the couch, lying very still, but feeling far from it. He feels… somewhat twitchy. Somewhat angry. Somewhat bitter and miserable, but mostly just crappy in a way he doesn’t enjoy at all. 

Something happened (what happened? Does it matter now? Does it ever?), and the heavy oily blackness that usually sits low and slick and mostly invisible on the very bottom of his soul, came bubbling up to the surface, flooded the shore, gurgled and hissed when it made land, like a sick spiteful creature. Newt wants it to spill, to burn, to drown whoever might be stupid enough to reach out to it; but of course he doesn’t. So he goes hiding indoors and keeps radio silence. He doesn’t want anyone to deal with him when he is like this, least of all…

The phone starts ringing again. 

“Not _you_!” Newt snarls, pointing an accusatory finger at the phone. “Fucking-not fucking-you! Shut up, shut _the fuck_ up!” 

The phone gives up for now. Newt gets up and paces around the apartment a bit. He sees his reflection in the mirror: messy hair, dark circles under his eyes, his pale and angry hamster face. He looks tired and sleep-deprived and ugly, the way that the villain in a movie should look: ugly inside and outside and not particularly sad about that. 

“Shut up”, he says quietly to the mirror. 

He finds a half-empty bottle of whisky and some tired yesterday lemonade, and pours it all in a glass. It tastes appropriately disgusting. Newt feels that if there were anyone in the room with him, he would very much like to punch them in the face. Just because. But he also wouldn’t want to punch them, because that’s not how he rolls. So instead he feels like punching himself (because there’s no one else here who deserves it), and that’s another thing that he won’t do. Because he’s a grown up. A mature one. Ish. Or, in other words, been there, done that, and It Does Not Help. So. 

Cheap whisky & old lemonade combo seems to be working a bit, because Newt starts feeling less angry and more tired. Maybe this all has to do with the lack of sleep. Maybe he could sleep, and it would help. Maybe after that he could play his guitar a bit, and it would help, too. 

The phone starts ringing. 

“I’m not picking up”, Newt says, swallowing the rest of his cocktail, lying down on the couch again, and giving in to the blackness and sleep. 


End file.
